


one bedroom in seoul

by mismatched (miscalculated)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, M/M, lovers to strangers, tw: mingyu insults the hets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23826826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscalculated/pseuds/mismatched
Summary: “I missed you,” Mingyu breathes, hot air against the shell of his ear making Jihoon shiver in a way the ice-cold air conditioner doesn’t — and a few more tears leak out from the inner corner of Jihoon’s eyes; he draws closer to Mingyu’s larger body for warmth, their legs tangling together like how they did five years ago. Like how they did as kids, right here, on this bed, making a one-person mattress work for two.-Jihoon and Mingyu reunite where they first met, in Busan.
Relationships: Kim Mingyu/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 98





	one bedroom in seoul

**Author's Note:**

> howdy. 
> 
> i don't think there are any big warnings to inform you about before reading. not anything that won't spoil the fic, anyway. but if there is something triggering in here just let me know. 
> 
> thanks for reading & i appreciate all feedback! [imagine a bunch of heart emojis here]

_I hear you’re back in Busan. I’ll be in the area next week. At the risk of sounding like a freeloader… think you have space for me for a day or two?_

**♫**

Despite the season passing in the blink of an eye, it’s annoyingly humid in the summertime. Everything feels uncomfortable on Jihoon’s wet skin, especially his clothes; he wants to take off his shirt and just walk around the house topless, but he can never bring himself to. Instead, he wears the thinnest tee shirts he owns, changes into a fresh one whenever his sweat soaks through and clings it to his torso.

He hasn’t been using the air conditioning too often. It’s loud and expensive, and when the sun falls behind the mountainous horizon, the heat leaves behind only the humidity. He can tolerate humid air. And his wall fan is sufficient enough to keep him cool as he falls asleep.

Jihoon knows he’s going to have to change that routine for the next two days, because there’s few things Mingyu hates more than being hot. That’s what Jihoon’s thinking, simultaneously brainstorming creative ways to block out the constant groan of the air conditioner, when he opens the front door and Mingyu is standing on the welcome mat.

“Hey,” Mingyu says. Has has a snapback on, its visor casting half his face in a shadow. He’s holding a duffel bag in one hand, a navy blue backpack strapped to his back.

Jihoon pulls the door flush against the wall, pivoting his body to make room. “Didn’t expect you so late.” The sun is gone, a flurry of stars in its wake.

Mingyu gives an apologetic smile before stepping into the house, kicking his sandals off in the foyer. “I know,” he says. “I got held up by my manager. He didn’t know I was heading here today.”

Jihoon gives an absent hum of a response, closes the front door and locks it. “I have an empty room upstairs. You can put your things up there. Are you hungry?”

“Nah,” Mingyu says. “I ate on the way here.”

“Alright.”

Jihoon walks up the creaky wooden stairs and Mingyu follows him. The steps scream louder with the extra weight. “It’s not very organized,” Jihoon tells him. “I made it kinda a storage room.”

The second floor of his tiny Busan home is sparse, devoid of any decoration. There’s a bathroom to the left, a hallway ahead, and two bedrooms. Jihoon leads Mingyu to the bedroom at the end of the hall, on the right. The bulb on the ceiling fan flickers a couple of times before buzzing to life when Jihoon flips a switch, and he pivots again so Mingyu can walk in first and deposit his things wherever he wants them.

Mingyu looks around, drinking it in. As promised, the room is cluttered with belongings, some old some new; stacks of papers, books, binders, old toys, chairs with missing legs, a desk with several corners chipped off, and an old, dusty TV set. Dead ahead of them is a narrow, rectangular window, the glass pane grimy with dust, faded teddy bear curtains pulled back to let in moonlight. There’s a twin sized bed tucked into a corner, sheets freshly spread; the closet’s sliding doors are broken, one side hanging off its hinges. 

“You didn’t change anything, did you?” Mingyu asks. He sits his duffel bag by the foot of the bed, his backpack on the mattress. “Almost feels like your mom is gonna come in here any minute now and nag us about the mess.”

Jihoon remains at the door. “I know it’s hot,” he says. “I’m gonna go turn the air conditioner on. There’s water and beer or whatever down in the kitchen.”

Mingyu turns to look at him. He takes the hat off of his head and shakes his hair out, runs his fingers through it a few times before it falls into place, dirty blonde hair framing his face like a halo. “Thanks, Jihoon. Really.”

Jihoon shrugs a shoulder up, averts his eyes to the peeling, baby blue wallpaper. “Yeah,” he says. “The bathroom is still that door by the stairs. Lemme know if there’s anything you need.” He walks out and heads back down the stairs, where the switch for the obnoxious, expensive air conditioner is.

**♫**

Mingyu was the kid that moved around a lot, and Busan was just another stop before his family moved on to another. The summers are short, weather pleasant enough to draw hoards of tourists every year to its beaches and city. Mingyu had told Jihoon once that Busan was the longest stretch of time that he stayed in one location; he surmised it was because they moved into Jihoon’s sleepy neighborhood, and his parents loved beautiful weather and quiet places.

The funny thing is, Mingyu and Jihoon didn’t start dating until they were already adults and living in a one bedroom apartment in Seoul. As kids, they were friends — not the best friend Jihoon had, but a good one nonetheless. And his mother absolutely adored Mingyu the moment she saw him, with his handsome face, charming canines, equally charming, boisterous personality. He’d come over almost everyday after class and every weekend, livening the mood with his endearing disposition. They’d watch anime, play Jihoon’s video games, share the same tiny little twin sized bed during sleepovers and made it work for two. Mingyu was already all gangly arms and legs by the time Jihoon met him.

And Mingyu was everything Jihoon wasn’t, the type of teenager that could make even Jihoon’s chronically grumpy father smile and laugh. He made up for the gaps in Jihoon’s personality, filled in the holes — so much so that his absence felt like a significant portion of who Jihoon was was taken away. But eventually Mingyu had to go; when two school years passed, Mingyu’s father was transferred to a branch in Deju. Up and gone again.

They reunited in Gangnam.

**♫**

“I can’t believe you kept the house.”Mingyu pads into the kitchen, towel splayed across his damp hair, in a white tee shirt and sleep pants with clouds on them. “When I heard you were back in Busan, I assumed you were living in a sky rise in the city, or something.”

Jihoon takes two cans of beer out of the fridge, the inside dark because the bulb has been out for months at this point. He hands one to Mingyu, cracks open his own and takes a couple of gulps. The rush of cold sends a shiver of relief along Jihoon’s sweat-damp skin.

Nothing has changed. The kitchen table is the same one Jihoon, Mingyu, and his family ate dinner on during late evenings. Its some kind of dark wood, chipped up, faded sharpie marks haphazardly written across it in a mess of colors. The kitchen windows have the same grime the one in the extra room has, except instead of faded teddy bear curtains, the kitchen drapes are a dusty, stained pink. Some of the cabinet doors are slanted, their hinges broken or loose; and there’s the dish plates that were his mom’s favorites despite the wear and tear to their floral patterns.

“Nah,” Jihoon says after a swallow. He pulls a chair out from under the kitchen table, sits on the chewed-up cushion. “You know I hate loud noises.”

He watches Mingyu down half of the beer can before he takes takes a seat at the table with Jihoon. The air conditioner is doing the loud groan that Jihoon hates so much. “True,” Mingyu says. His mouth is wet with condensation. “But in Seoul…” He doesn’t finish the thought.

Jihoon wipes a sheen of sweat from his forehead and pushes his fringe out of his eyes. “You have work in Busan?”

Mingyu starts reading the label on his can, rotating it with his broad fingers. “Yeah. Two Concept is opening a store in the city and I’m a brand ambassador.” He looks at Jihoon, who blinks at him tiredly. “I wanted to come a little early, but my reservation at the hotel isn’t until Friday, so.”

“Nice,” Jihoon says. He takes another sip before he continues with, “Brand ambassador. Must pay well.”

Mingyu only smiles at this, a hint of shyness quirking the corner of his lips up. “What about you? I was surprised when Seungcheol hyung told me you were back in Busan, in your family home.”

Jihoon leans back in the chair, the wood creaking beneath him. He looks over Mingyu’s shoulder, where the baby pink wallpaper is curling off the walls, stark white poking up underneath. “I wanted some peace and quiet. Now that I’m old, I’m starting to realize why my parents hated city life.”

“Old?” Mingyu sputters a laugh. As deep as it always has been, making Jihoon’s fingertips vibrate even from this distance. “At 28? Hyung. I hope you’re being hyperbolic.”

Jihoon averts his gaze from the pink wallpaper to Mingyu. “Don’t call me hyung,” he says. “It’s weird.”

The gurgle of the air conditioner and quiet hum of the dingy fridge fills the lapse of conversation. Jihoon watches as Mingyu deflates a bit, smile curling off his face like the pink of the kitchen walls. “Sorry,” he finally says. “It’s been awhile.”

“Hasn’t been long enough to forget me,” Jihoon retorts, an eyebrow rising. “You haven’t called me hyung since we were kids.”

There’s been distance since Mingyu arrived, but suddenly Jihoon feels like Mingyu is worlds away, has to squint to pull the features of his face into focus. The sheen to his tan skin, his perfectly plucked eyebrows, hair a healthy glow of browns and yellows, everything about him so manicured — faultless — in ways Jihoon has known since they were in Seoul, but can’t recognize now. Just makes it feel like there are several extra walls separating them.

Mingyu’s eyes are back on his can. Then he knocks his head back, polishing the rest of his beer off; Jihoon follows the long line of his neck, down to where his shirt collar dips down, a thin gold necklace hanging between his clavicles. When Mingyu lifts his head again, Jihoon moves his gaze down to the sharpie-covered table.

“He told me you were a music producer,” Mingyu says. “Are you still…?”

“Hiatus,” Jihoon answers before Mingyu can finish his question. “I needed to get out of Incheon for a minute."

Mingyu hesitates. The air conditioner does a long sputter before returning to its pervasive buzz. “A year is a minute?”

“Yep,” Jihoon’s response is immediate.

Perhaps Mingyu hears the clipped tone to his voice, because he hesitates again, shifting in his chair like he’d been kicked. “If I asked for a year off I’d be sued for breach of contract,” Mingyu says on a wry laugh. “I guess our field of work is different.”

Jihoon swallows down the rest of his beer. Wiping his mouth with the back of a hand while standing, he says, “I guess so.” He picks up Mingyu’s empty can and walks over to the recycling bin to deposit both of them in.

**♫**

Jihoon’s mom doted on Mingyu when they were teenagers, often told him, “When you’re older you’re either going to be a superstar, a heartbreaker, or both.” To Jihoon, she’d say, “I can’t see you doing anything but music.”

Mother’s intuition, maybe, because Mingyu found himself modeling and acting work in Seoul, and Jihoon, who moved to Seoul after high school graduation, signed with an entertainment company as a trainee — and then a music producer. Soon after, Mingyu and Jihoon found one another.

Mingyu as a man was teenager Mingyu dialed up to one hundred. One thousand. It seemed as if every person that met him fell a little bit in love with him, if only for the brief moment that they spoke or met eyes. He was charm personified, its corporeal form brought to life. And Mingyu was an expert in making people feel heard, stared at them like he had fallen a little bit in love with them, too.

That was why Jihoon was shocked, _confused_ , when Mingyu confessed, a month after their rendezvous, that he couldn’t see himself being with anybody else. He couldn’t make sense of it — why tall, handsome, charismatic Kim Mingyu wanted him — and, if he’s being honest, he couldn’t understand it for the entirety of their relationship. Jihoon doesn’t like to say he had (has) low self-esteem; it’s just that, there are some things that are a fact of life. And the fact was that there was nothing special about himself. He was short, plain in all the ways Mingyu was special, soft in all the places Mingyu was hard lines and sharp cuts. He began working out in his late teens/early twenties, but the fact of the matter was that he’d never look as broad, fit, or endearing as Mingyu. No way in hell.

So how does somebody like Kim Mingyu not see himself being with anybody but plain, ugly, short Lee Jihoon? He wasn’t even fun or boisterous or exuberant to make up for all his shortcomings. The only thing he had was his skill for anything relating to music: singing, instruments, composing, producing. It was why he was transferred from being a trainee to working in the studio; no one in the company could imagine Jihoon being an idol, someone that could be packaged and sold to the masses.

But being with Mingyu felt like returning to himself. The gaping hole that Mingyu had left behind when he moved away had been filled again. And those years in Seoul, in their noisy, one bedroom apartment in Seoul — Mingyu working as a model and part-time actor, Jihoon doing what he’d always dreamt of — were the happiest years of his life. The nights he’d lie in bed with Mingyu, their legs and arms tangled together because Mingyu loved to cuddle and Jihoon learned to like it, too, he’d listen to Mingyu’s soft snores and wonder how he got so lucky. What had he done in another life to deserve this one?

The noise, the physical intimacy, all of it, he learned to like. Love. And Mingyu had said _I love you_ so many times before Jihoon could bring himself to do the same.

But he did. He loved him. And Mingyu knew it, even if Jihoon waited a year before he said it back, because Mingyu was another part of himself. The soul that filled the empty space in Jihoon.

**♫**

Jihoon can’t sleep. It’s midnight, the loud gurgles and buzz of the air conditioner is like nails on a chalkboard, and Mingyu’s presence in the room across the hall is looming over him. He lies in his bed, blinking up at the ceiling, thin sheets twisted around his body.

Well. It isn’t like he has anything to do or look forward to tomorrow. Jihoon untangles himself from his sheets and walks to the door of his bedroom. He cracks the door open slowly, trying to muffle the loud cry as it swings on the hinges, and tip toes out into the hall. Of course, it’s dark under Mingyu’s door. He has to get his beauty sleep for his brand ambassador event in a day.

That’s what Jihoon thought, at least, until he pushes open a door at the corner of the hall that leads to a platform on the roof, and Mingyu’s sitting there in one of the lawn chairs, head tilted back as he blinks up at the stars. The old plant pots his mother used to tend to line the perimeter. There’s a narrow set of stairs that leads down to a passageway between his house and the neighbor’s.

“No light pollution out here,” Mingyu says without looking over at him. His hair hangs behind him, a golden glow to it under the moon. “Not as much, at least.”

Jihoon lets the door close behind him before walking over to the circle of lawn chairs. “Reason number eight thousand why the city sucks,” he says. Mingyu snorts a laugh as Jihoon pulls one of the chairs behind him with a foot and sits in it.

“You really have become an old man,” Mingyu snickers. “Though you’ve always kinda been one.”

“And you’ll be a teenager for life,” Jihoon says to the stars.

Mingyu titters. “Ouch,” he says. “Feels like an insult.”

Jihoon doesn’t supply a response or addendum. He blinks slowly, finally getting sleepy now that he can’t hear the constant noise indoors.

“Wow. Not even an apology.” Mingyu turns his had to look at Jihoon’s profile. “You think I act like a teenager?”

Jihoon yawns, tears pricking his eyes. “Yeah,” he says on an exhale. “When I knew you.”

“When I knew you,” Mingyu parrots, a mutter. “I thought we knew one another. Which is why you didn’t want me to call you hyung.”

“It’s been, like, five years since we broke up,” Jihoon says. “I don’t know if you still act like a teen or not. I know you. I just don’t know who you are now.”

There’s one thing that’s the same, though: Mingyu always falls quiet and squirms when he’s uncomfortable — and that’s what he’s doing in the lawn chair, the legs of it squeaking with the shift of his hips. Jihoon knows it’s the ‘since we broke up’ that got him; even when they were reaching the logical conclusion of their relationship, Mingyu didn’t want to say the words. He’d say _is it over?_ or _you’re done with me?_ or _it’s better if I leave_ — but never _I’m breaking up with you. We broke up. You’re my ex._

Jihoon said it. He’d said it several times, tried to make it real. But Jihoon has always been ruthless in the way Mingyu isn’t. One of his numerous shortcomings.

“I just,” Mingyu is saying, stops, sighs. “I just don’t think that’s fair? We both did a lot of childish shit. If I was like a teenager you were like a jaded, bitter old man.”

He can’t argue with that one.

“My mom used to say that,” Jihoon says, laughs, not friendly but not unkind. “She said I was the spitting image of dad. But only when she was angry at me.”

Mingyu stares for a moment, then turns his head back up to the stars. “Your mom was never wrong. I remember when I told her we were dating she said you’d break my heart.”

Jihoon swings his head to look at Mingyu. “She said that?”

“Yep. She told me that you were too much like your dad and I was too much like her. But I didn’t listen, because, like… she was still with your dad. So I thought, hey, if we’re like your parents then cool. We’d grow old together, too.”

Oh. Okay — that one stings. After five years Jihoon knows he’s over it, over him, over Seoul, but his eyes are starting to burn, throat closing up. “Ah,” he says. “Never knew that. You didn’t tell me.”

Mingyu meets Jihoon’s stare. “She told me not to tell you. I’ll apologize to her for breaking our promise when I visit tomorrow.”

“You’re going _tomorrow_?”

“I have to,” Mingyu says, shrugging like it’s obvious. “I can’t come to Busan and not visit her.” He narrows his eyes at Jihoon. “I hope you’ve been going by to pay your respects. She’s lonely.”

Jihoon bristles. “She’s _dead_. A gravesite can’t be lonely.”

Mingyu’s face flickers through several expressions in rapid succession: the initial shock, then anger, then defeat. He sputters, breaking eye contact to stare out at the expanse of houses below. “Wow, Jihoon,” he says. “You’re still such a miserable fucking asshole. Nothing’s changed.”

“It’s _true_ — “

“That’s your mom,” Mingyu shouts over him, the sudden increase in volume startling Jihoon into silence. Mingyu’s jaw clenches and unclenches a few times before he inhales sharply, says, low, “She’s your mom and she’s lonely. You asshole.”

Again — that’s fair. Despite knowing her for two years in his childhood, coming back to visit her several times in adulthood, Mingyu was closer to Jihoon’s mom than Jihoon was. Jihoon knew her for 24 years of his life and could never breach the boundaries that Mingyu did. And despite being a ‘spitting image’ of his father, the two got along like water and oil. Maybe it was _because_ they were so similar that they didn’t like one another.

“Sorry,” Jihoon croaks around the lump in his throat.

“Apologize to her, not me.”

“Right.” He takes a deep breath, bones rattling as if a chill came over him. Cold as if it were winter and not a sticky, humid summer night in Busan.

Silence hangs thick in the air like the heat, an invisible curtain that drapes between them. Mingyu shifts in his seat again, the legs creaking in protest, before he opens his mouth to say, “It’s so weird. I haven’t been back here since she passed away. And it’s like… like time stopped since she left. I come back and everything’s the same — the neighborhood, the house, the quiet. _You_.” He lets himself look at Jihoon’s carefully blasé disposition. “You don’t look like you aged a day past 24.”

“Tell that to way my knees crack and all the random aches,” Jihoon quips, and both men laugh quietly.

Another moment of silence as Mingyu adjusts.

“You’re paler than I remember,” Mingyu says. “And you’re overdue for a haircut. But the same.”

Jihoon runs a hand through his hair, overgrown fringe flopping back into his eyes. “I’ll cut it.”

“Yourself?”

“Yeah. Not everyone has a personal stylist like you, Mr. Hotshot,” Jihoon says, and there’s another few seconds of quiet laughter.

**♫**

Those five years in Seoul simultaneously felt so long and way too short. The closer it got to the end, the quicker the months seemed to pass. The closer it got to the end, the meaner Jihoon became. Insults thrown in the heat of the moment; leaving the apartment and staying over at Seungcheol’s or Jeonghan’s for an undetermined amount of days when Mingyu was giving him the silent treatment; throwing a fit when he was jealous, when he was convinced that Mingyu was going to wake up one day and say he made a big mistake dating him.

The worst argument he can remember is when he’d unanimously decided that Mingyu was going to leave him for his co-star. He was filming for a web drama, and it required him to be very present on social media with his female lead. Lots of hugs, lots of prolonged stares, filmed kisses, causing buzz so that the fans would believe they were actually involved with one another.

Fuck. It’s so stupid, so fucking stupid, but Mingyu took him as his date to a luncheon, he saw Mingyu hugging the actress, one palm pressed to the small of her back — and that was when Jihoon knew. ‘Knew’ that Mingyu was going to leave him for her. He didn’t cause a scene, but he did fall quiet and leave the restaurant; Mingyu followed him out, and they argued out on the curb for what felt like forever until Mingyu told him that if he left they were done.

Jihoon left. They weren’t done. Not that time, not the time after that, or the one after that, but it definitely shoved the wedge further between them. For the final two years of Seoul, of that one-bedroom fantasy, of Mingyu, Jihoon had never been so insecure in his life. He’d never been so happy in his life, never been so mean to himself in his life — mean to Mingyu.

And Mingyu knew all the ways to get under his skin. The silent treatment, the having Seungcheol or Jeonghan mediate their arguments because he always ran his fucking mouth and told them their business. And the insults Mingyu flung right back at him, hitting him right where it hurts because after so many years of friendship, of dating, Mingyu had a script of things he could say to tear Jihoon up.

You’re miserable. You’ll never be happy. You think being blunt makes you smarter or more rational than me, but it really makes you a piece of shit that no one wants to be around. Your friends think you’re an asshole, too. You hate yourself for being gay, so you take it out on me. _I hate you_.

So volatile. When Jeonghan, the man that seldom gave his opinion on their relationship, sat him down and begged him to break up with Mingyu, he knew. There was no coming back from this. They couldn’t reset, start over, take back the things they said to one another; there was too much resentment.

“You’re depressed,” Mingyu had told him, year five, the year it all ended. The year after his mom died and his dad cut contact and moved away. The worst year of the best years of his life. “And you think I can fix you.”

Fair assessment. That was what Jihoon was thinking when he stood at the kitchen island, crystal chandelier hanging overhead, flute of wine in one hand. Rich, dating his childhood friend-turned-model, working his dream career, living in the largest city in South Korea — and still so insecure. Insecure, mean, _mean_ , jaded, bitter. Convinced that one day he was going to wake up and he’d be back in Busan, his dad pretending he didn’t exist, his mom closer to his friends than to him. Poor, isolated, anhedonic.

“I don’t know why you love me,” Jihoon had told him. “I don’t even love me.”

Mingyu stood at the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, dressed immaculately in a tailored suit, black hair slicked back. He had a social event to attend. And Jihoon remembers the way he looked at him, a mix of pity, sadness, disgust, resolution. The Mingyu of the past four years would’ve consoled Jihoon. He would’ve told Jihoon all the reasons he loved him, would’ve told him that he wished one day Jihoon loved himself the way he loved him.

“I know,” was what year five Mingyu said.

**♫**

“Does it feel weird?” Mingyu asks. “Sleeping in your parents’ old room?”

“Weird,” Jihoon parrots, tasting the word on his tongue. He squints as he considers it, blinking out at his old neighborhood. “No… It feels like. Like I need to be there. Or something.” He laughs. “Sounds stupid, I know.”

He’d never been able to go into his parents’ bedroom much as a kid. His dad didn’t like him sitting on their bed or going through their stuff, and his mom was a neat freak, knew he was in there if the bed sheets were crinkled or her sleep shoes weren’t sitting the way she placed them that morning. So, coming back to Busan, buying the house, and leaving it exactly as it was — the creaky chairs, sullied kitchen table, grimy windows and dust collecting on the curtains — felt therapeutic, in a way.

Jihoon walked through the bedroom when he first arrived the year prior, drinking in all of the belongings his dad left behind before he packed up and disappeared. The empty perfume bottles, the pink bed sheets his mom loved to use, her sleep shoes hidden under the bed, a scatter of her remaining clothes in the closet. All of the things he’d seen as a kid and never got to touch. It feels like she’s still there, almost. A strange kind of warmth, closeness.

“It’s not stupid,” Mingyu says, soft, voice nearly carried away by the hot breeze. “This is your home.”

Jihoon meets his gaze. The moon casts Mingyu’s hair in a golden glow, sparks the brown in his irises to life. Jihoon drinks him in, blinking, blinking, blinking quickly to trap the tears that swell in his eyes. Then Mingyu turns into a blur of yellow, brown, white, Busan.

“Damn it,” Jihoon gasps, covers his face with one hand and ducks his head. The harder he tries to contain himself the more he comes undone, sobbing quietly into his hands. “Sorry.”

He hears the lawn chair creak. Then Mingyu’s arms are around him, pulling him in. He hasn’t felt those arms in five years. The thought makes him cry harder.

“It’s okay,” Mingyu whispers into his hair, hot breath blowing against his scalp. “It’s okay. I love you.”

♫

Mingyu and Jihoon were the same type of emotional, just as easily hurt. The only discernible difference between the two was that Mingyu was comfortable enough with himself to let it out — and Jihoon, chronically afraid, kept it in.

If Mingyu wanted to cry, he cried. If Mingyu was sad, he wouldn’t tuck it away, hidden, in the recesses of his mind; he moped, lied around, pouted as he splayed himself across their fifteen-hundred thread count duvet. If Mingyu wanted expensive things, he’d buy it without a second thought. If Mingyu was excited, he’d bounce around the room, pull open the drapes of the picture windows to bask in Seoul’s unforgiving sun.

Jihoon perceived it as being juvenile. The stubborn side of him still does. Because — what grown man shows so much of himself? What adult allows himself to be vulnerable that way, laying out the delicate bits of their psyche for someone to easily smash into pieces? What responsible, grown man makes hefty purchases just because they _want_ it, not because they need it? It’s very ironic, and Jihoon can see that now (hindsight is 20/20, and isolation left him with a lot of time to ruminate), but in reality the most vulnerable person in the relationship was Jihoon. The more he kept in, the more came unleashed when they argued. The more Jihoon projected his own failures onto Mingyu.

Mingyu could see it for what it was. While sometimes Jihoon struck him when he wasn’t strong enough to fight back, Mingyu also knew not to let himselfget shredded to pieces; his years in the ruthless, unforgiving entertainment industry taught him those hard lessons. If he couldn’t take feedback, chew it up, and spit it back out, he would’ve never survived as long as he did (has) in a business that has no shame in criticizing the very fine details of his appearance.

“You are the straightest gay man I ever met,” Mingyu, mid-argument number five hundred, had spat, getting up from their agarwood dining room table and shoving his half-eaten plate of food away. The food he’d cooked for them. “Acting like an asshole and calling it being logical. Fuck you.” Another evening ruined because Jihoon couldn’t hold it back when Mingyu produced one gift of many: a watch that could pay three months of rent.

A watch that could practically pay off Jihoon’s Busan _home_.

“I’m an asshole because you’re reckless with money?” Jihoon said, incredulous and so pretentious in the way that makes him cringe to think about now. “If that makes me straight then I’m fine with that.”

“We can _afford_ it, Jihoon,” Mingyu punctuated the retort with shoving his chair under the table, knocking the legs into the base and rattling their plates. “You’re not fucking poor anymore. If it were up to you we’d be living in the slums with three billion won in our savings account.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. You know how much we’d make off the interest in ten years? Twenty?”

There were few things Mingyu hated more than the heat. One of those few things was Jihoon’s sarcastic, condescending remarks. The way he thrived off being calm — “logical” — when Mingyu was angry. As if that made him the winner of a debate they were never even having. And, god, did Mingyu look livid then, about ready to wring Jihoon’s neck.

“Remind me to never do anything nice for you ever again,” Mingyu said, his voice surprisingly steady for how red his face was. “Nothing makes you happy.”

And he was gone.

Argument number five hundred was shoved under the rug with all the other four hundred and ninety-nine arguments when Jihoon cleaned up the dining room table, washed all the pots and pans Mingyu used to cook their dinner, cleaned, cleaned, cleaned, his way of showing affection, before he showered and crawled under the heavy duvet and wrapped his arms around Mingyu — Mingyu’s favorite way of showing affection. Something Jihoon rarely did on his own, and Mingyu took the rare opportunity to tangle their legs together.

Mingyu had cried. Again. Jihoon dried his damp cheeks with kisses, apologizing with his body and not his words. Never his words. Because he was always too proud to say it aloud.

Another one of the few things Mingyu hated more than the heat.

♫

The air conditioner is still groaning inside. And the house smells worse after being outside for so long — like dust and old paint. And everything creaks, groans, cries when they touch them, walk across the floorboards, open doors.

And.

The light in the upstairs hallway has been burnt out since Jihoon moved back in. The door to Jihoon’s old bedroom — Mingyu’s current room — is open, the window pouring in light from the moon, from street lamps; it’s easier to see the dust floating in the air.

They’re standing in the dark hallway, between the two bedroom doors, Jihoon on his tip-toes and arms draped around Mingyu’s neck, Mingyu bent over and arms around Jihoon’s waist, kissing. A slow, gentle slide of lips, tongue, the gurgle of the vents drowning out the way Jihoon sighs into the kiss, the way Mingyu hums.

“I’m sorry,” Jihoon breathes against his mouth before closing the space again. Another sigh, Jihoon breaking away. “I’m sorry.” Mingyu cups his chin and brings him in to kiss him again.

Jihoon asked him if he meant it. That there was no way he still did. “If you said it in the heat of the moment it’s okay,” he’d tried.

“I don’t think I’ll ever not love you,” Mingyu had said. He’d looked at Jihoon in a way Jihoon had never seen in Seoul. “I think I loved you since we were kids.”

This is 27-year old Kim Mingyu.

Even if it’s only for one night, Jihoon chooses to believe him.

“My room,” Jihoon whispers, unlinking his arms from around Mingyu’s neck to push him backwards through the open door. Mingyu goes pliantly, watches as Jihoon closes the door behind them.

Then Jihoon is crowding into Mingyu’s space again, going back onto his toes and pulling Mingyu’s head down by the back of his neck to press their mouths together. Mingyu humors it for a few seconds before pulling back, his traitorous pupils blown dark even as he asks, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Jihoon says, starts shoving Mingyu towards the twin mattress. “Now please sit down so I don’t have to do gymnastics to kiss you.”

Mingyu laughs, the rumble of it making Jihoon’s fingers vibrate against his chest. “Okay,” he says, and he sits down on the bed, arms reaching out to hold Jihoon by the hips when Jihoon straddles his lap and kisses him again.

He can feel himself unraveling. He hasn’t cried in so many years — the last time being when he officially broke their Seoul apartment lease and moved to Incheon; the last, last time being when he visited his mother’s grave for the first and final time. And with the tears comes all of the other shit he held in since he and Mingyu started dating. Really — what he held in for his entire life.

As they kiss, as they strip off one another’s clothes, as Mingyu lies back and Jihoon presses their bodies together, wet skin on wet skin, Jihoon can’t stop apologizing. Mingyu keeps raking his fingers through Jihoon’s damp hair, gently shushing him, pressing his mouth to every inch of Jihoon that he can reach, but Jihoon persists. _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, so sorry._

“I missed you,” Mingyu breathes, hot air against the shell of his ear making Jihoon shiver in a way the ice-cold air conditioner doesn’t — and a few more tears leak out from the inner corner of Jihoon’s eyes; he draws closer to Mingyu’s larger body for warmth, their legs tangling together like how they did five years ago. Like how they did as kids, right here, on this bed, making a one-person mattress work for two.

Jihoon wants to turn the fucking air off. Wants them to just sit in the silence and the heat, melt together, pretend like they’re high schoolers again and they’re not just friends but also lovers, and his mom is still alive, setting the kitchen table, minutes away from calling them down for breakfast. Wants to start over. Wants to know what he knows now, today, when he wakes up in his sixteen year old body and fifteen year old Mingyu is wrapped around him, snoring softly.

Wants to — “I’m so fucking sorry,” Jihoon gasps, sobs raking down his body as he tucks his face into the crook of Mingyu’s hot, hot, neck. The gold chain digs into chin, more uncomfortable than painful, but he chooses to ignore it. Mingyu rubs a large palm up and down his bare back, sweat rubbing into skin, and continues to hush him; no _it’s okay_ , no _I’m sorry too_ , nothing but quiet shushes so low the groan of the conditioner drowns him out.

Because, and Jihoon knows this all too well, it wasn’t okay. Mingyu has nothing to apologize about.

And Jihoon’s apologies are many, many years too late.

♫

In the morning, they walk to the graveyard. It’s early enough that the sun isn’t unbearably hot yet. Mingyu has his snapback back on, Jihoon with his own; when they walk through the gates and onto the site, Mingyu takes his off. Jihoon keeps his on.

The neighborhood is still sleepy, silent. A few people are ambling along the sidewalk, but it’s mostly grand parents. Jihoon can hear the distant chorus of dogs barking as Mingyu takes a knee in front of his mother’s gravesite.

“I’m sorry I don’t have flowers,” Mingyu says to the gravestone. He brushes random bits of dirt away from where her name is carved into it. “I came here on short notice. Hope you forgive me.”

Jihoon shifts his weight from one foot to another, head ducked and hands in the pockets of his joggers.

“Also,” Mingyu continues. His voice is shaking with tears. Jihoon can feel his stomach twist, making him nauseous. “I broke my promise. I’m sorry. Please forgive me — I thought… I ‘dunno. I thought it was fine now.”

Mingyu doesn’t have to say it; Jihoon understands the implication. It’s fine now, because it’s over. It’s been over for half a decade and will be over for the rest of their lives. The only thing stringing them together is the mother Mingyu never had but always wanted. Once he packs up and drives to the city, checks into his hotel, there’s no coming back.

Busan is one stop of many.

“I’m okay,” Mingyu says to her grave. Jihoon can only see the back of his head, golden brown tufts sticking out underneath his snapback, but he knows he’s crying. “You always worry about me, but I’m okay. Promise. That’s one I won’t break.” He laughs through his tears, wipes at his eyes. “My pastor says heaven is what you want it to be. I wonder what that looks like for you.”

Mingyu talks to the gravesite for what feels like an hour. The sun is really up now, beating down on them, but even as Mingyu sweats through his white tee shirt, he keeps rambling. How work has been, how he hates his hair color but he has to tolerate it until after the grand opening, how he signed a ten year contract with a modeling agency based in Seoul last year and he’s booking lots of jobs despite the fact that he’s approaching his thirties.

Jihoon stands there and waits. And when Mingyu is finally done, says I love you to the tombstone, he gets up and turns to Jihoon. His eyes are red, face flushed, but no more tears. “Want to say something to her?” he asks. His expression says that he already knows the answer to the question.

Jihoon tilts his head, visor protecting him from the sun and Mingyu’s unblinking stare. “Nah,” he says. His mouth is dry. “She knows how I feel.”

More dogs are barking down the road. He doesn’t have to look to know that Mingyu is still staring at him.

“Okay,” Mingyu says on an exhale, resolved. “Let’s go.”

♫

Mingyu has his things packed and seated in the foyer by the door. Jihoon stands there and watches as Mingyu pull his sandals on. His hair is damp, fresh clothes on after his shower. The only food Jihoon has left, aside from leftover takeout from a few days ago, are fruits; Mingyu had an apple for breakfast.

“Drive safely,” Jihoon tells him. “People in the city drive like idiots.”

Mingyu tries at a smile. “Right. Thanks.” He picks up his navy blue backpack and hooks the straps onto both shoulders.

The house is burning up again; Jihoon turned the air conditioning off as soon as Mingyu had his belongings gathered and was ready to go. And, for the first time in forever, Jihoon almost wishes the vents were doing their obnoxious groaning to fill in the silence that hangs thick between them.

Mingyu is doing the uncomfortable squirm again.

“If there’s something you wanna say,” Jihoon says, voice so loud without all the noise. “Go ahead.”

“Your hiatus…” Mingyu hesitates. “I know you don’t wanna talk about it. But I’ve been thinking about it since Seungcheol hyung told me you weren’t producing anymore.” Another pause for Mingyu to squirm. Jihoon’s breathing goes shallow. “You were a workaholic, Jihoon. I almost didn’t believe him, ‘cause there was no way the Lee Jihoon I knew was on hiatus.”

Jihoon shrugs a shoulder up, then down. “Writer’s block.”

“A year long writer’s block.”

“Yeah.” Jihoon stops rocking from side to side. “I stopped enjoying it.”

Neither of them say anything for many, many seconds. Probably a minute. If Mingyu’s waiting for him to supply more context, Jihoon has nothing else to give him. He’ll be waiting in the foyer forever.

Mingyu takes a sharp inhale. On the exhale, he says, “It’s kinda scary, honestly. Nothing changed. After your mom passed away, everything stayed exactly the same. Especially you.”

Fair.

“And I thought it was a good thing, kinda,” Mingyu continues. “It felt nostalgic coming back here and seeing you hadn’t renovated the place.” Another audible inhale. “Turns out it really isn’t a good thing. Not changing.”

Fair.

“I’m not very different either, though,” Mingyu says. “Loving you for half my life.”

“Another bad thing you need to change?” Jihoon tries for a jokey tone, but it comes out a vulnerable croak of grief and regret. 

Mingyu of five years ago would’ve said no. It’s not a bad thing. You were my first love and I will always love my first love. Even when you hurt me, insult me, make me feel like I’m crazy for tolerating all the bad. Falling in love with you wasn’t my mistake. Never. 

“Yeah,” 27-year old Mingyu says.

♫♫♫

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry. 
> 
> me trying to write happy stories with happy endings: oh my god this SUCKS i cant WRITE no one will read this TRASH 
> 
> me trying to write sad stories with bad or ambiguous endings: *up until 4AM typing my life away* wow. the taste is IMMACULATE this is gENIUS i am BIG BRAIN


End file.
